“How much for a night, sweetheart?”—hearing a voice from behind that hadn’t changed at all and was painfully familiar, I almost dropped my glass.
“You don’t have that much,” I snapped back without even turning around. Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I put on a cold mask of detachment.
“And if you think about it?” a slightly hoarse voice answered right beside me, and chills ran over my skin.
“I said—” I blurted out irritably, and, sharply turning around, met the tense gaze of my beloved grey eyes, barely audible adding: “For you I’m priceless.”
“And I thought the compensation you received from me was more than enough,” Nikita Voronov hissed through clenched teeth. Then he picked me up and carried me toward the stairs.